Pain Management
by TraSan
Summary: Drinking, the patented Winchester method of pain management. Dean thinks he's got it all under control, Sam's not so sure. Sometimes the consequences for our mistakes are paid by those we love.
1. God, Grant Me the Serenity

**Pain Management**

**Disclaimer: **The boys belong to Kripke and the CW; the love belongs to us.

**Beta'd: **By Carocali who helped me clear up the rough spots and Muffy Morrigan who helped me brain storm a certain section…twice. Many thanks, ladies!

_I tinkered and played after these talented authors provided feedback, so as usual, any and all remaining errors are mine and mine alone._

**Dedicated: **To Phx, as a late birthday/Christmas story. Thanks for being such a great friend.

**Time Line: **Sometime after _Heaven and Hell._

…………..……………………………………..**God, Grant Me the Serenity**………………………………………………….

_He shouldn't be driving. _Sam glanced over at his brother. He hadn't noticed the signs until they were already on the road, headed from the bar where Dean had successfully hustled three hundred dollars in a game of pool, to the motel. The symptoms were staring Sam in the face: the slight tremble in Dean's hands, the way he kept blinking hard against the lights of oncoming cars, and the slight odor of beer that seemed to be coming from Dean's pores.

Dean was more than buzzed, he was drunk.

As disturbing as that thought was, Sam didn't want to get into an argument that would distract Dean from driving. They were less than a mile from the motel and he was certain if he just let it ride, they would get back in one piece.

A car darted out from a side road directly into the path of the Impala. Dean hit the brakes, turning the wheel hard to the right. Tires squealed, the smell of burnt rubber coming in through vents. Sam placed a hand on the dashboard to brace himself as Dean over-corrected, causing the car to fishtail.

"Dean, watch out!" Sam shouted, pointing at the semi truck barreling down the road towards them.

"I got it," Dean assured him. True to his words, the Impala straightened and the large vehicle passed by, honking its horn in protest. "Asshole!" Dean yelled, craning around to shout at the other driver. He turned towards Sam. "You okay?"

"_I'm _fine," Sam said. He leaned back in the seat, trying to keep his breathing even. It had been too close for his liking. The flash of headlights shining directly through the passenger window brought unwanted memories to the surface.

Sam stole another glance at his brother. The older man seemed fine, tapping his fingers in time to the music, occasionally belting out a lyric or two. Dean seemed completely oblivious to just how much danger they'd been in. He vowed to keep closer tabs on his brother's drinking after tonight. Sam recognized the cause only too clearly from his own bout of denial and pain therapy not that long ago. Hell was hell after all.

Dean pulled the Impala into the lot, easing it into a parking spot with no difficulty. "I'm beat," Sam announced with an exaggerated yawn. "I'm glad we don't have to pull an all-nighter. I'm going to sleep for a week."

Dean smirked, tapping Sam once on the knee. "Getting old there, Sam."

"I'm still younger than you," Sam shot back. "I'm not turning thirty in two months."

A few short months ago, Sam's plans for Dean's birthday had been a bottle of whisky and, if there was any justice in the universe, Lilith's head on a plate. Having his brother here, sitting side by side in the Impala, was a far better celebration than Sam could have hoped for.

Dean grimaced. "Thirty." His expression grew thoughtful, eyes reflecting inward.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head, a lopsided grin appearing. "I just never thought I'd see it. It feels good."

Sam returned the smile. "Yeah, it does." He allowed the moment to linger, then opened the car door letting in a waft of crisp, autumnal air. The breeze catapulted both brothers out of the Impala. The cold effortlessly seeped through the layers of Sam's clothing. He shivered as Dean struggled with the key and lock. "Give it," he demanded, reaching for the key. "I'm freezing."

Dean placed a shoulder between Sam and the door. "I got it," Dean insisted. The door creaked open, the hinges seemingly protesting the cold as much as Sam.

Sam flicked on the light. Dean had already managed to get to his bed. He landed with a big flop in the center of it. "Three hundred bucks," Dean said, folding his arms behind his head. "That should last us for awhile. Good thing the price of gas is coming down."

Sam nodded. It had cost him nearly sixty dollars to fill the Impala not that long ago. "You want the shower first?"

"Nah," Dean said. "I'm gonna knock off early."

Sam raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn't comment as he gathered clean clothes. Dean threw a pillow at him, his aim true. "What was that for?" Sam asked, with a wide grin.

"I'm the oldest," Dean said, with an answering smirk. "That means I don't need a reason."

"Sure," Sam agreed, happy to simply share space with Dean again. "That's what it means."

"It totally does, Sam," Dean said, propping himself up on his elbows. "Look it up."

Sam snorted, but a chuckle escaped in spite of his best efforts to keep it in. "Good night, Dean."

"Night." A pillow hit the back of Sam's head as he entered the bathroom. It took all the willpower he had to ignore it, shutting the door instead.

The smile slowly faded from Sam's face as he enjoyed the warm spray. Dean had driven after a couple of beers before, but never impaired. The fact that he seemed oblivious to it had Sam more concerned than the act itself. Alcohol and hunting had always been two of Dean's favorite coping mechanisms, but he never mixed them. "Guess we're okay then," Sam murmured to himself.

Except that he knew they weren't. He'd tried offering Dean support, understanding, even something as simple as a shoulder to cry on, but Dean had pulled out of the embrace, unwilling to be comforted. It's not that Sam didn't get it. It was hard to accept a gesture of empathy or forgiveness when you felt undeserving of absolution. They'd both been there before. Sam sighed, the exhale coming out as a shaky breath. There was no doubt in his mind, they'd be there again.

When his skin puckered, his fingers turning white, Sam climbed out of the shower. Water rolled off his skin, pooling on the bathroom floor. After a quick toweling off, he pulled on sweats and a t-shirt before flicking out the light as he walked out of the bathroom.

Sam could see his brother sprawled out on the bed in the dim light cast by the single bulb. Dean's feet were still on the floor and light reflected through the nearly empty bottle of whisky causing the amber liquid to sparkle. He picked up the shot glass and sniffed. Dean had taken at least one drink before he'd fallen asleep.

Sam lifted his brother's feet onto the bed, folding the bedspread over him. He backed up, taking a seat on his bed. He ran fingers through wet strands pushing them off his forehead. "We have to do something, Dean," Sam said. "I'm worried about you, man."

Inspiration sometimes snuck up on Sam like a gentle breeze from the recesses of his mind. Other times it slammed into him like a freight train on a midnight run. This time, it was the latter. He slapped his forehead, producing a Homer Simpson-like exclamation. They needed a hunt, something simple, something they could get their hands on and attack head on, something they understood, something they weren't fighting against horrible, impossible odds. A haunting, a werewolf, heck a vampire beheading, any of those seemed simple and uncomplicated compared to the cosmic battle they'd witnessed only a few short days ago.

Sleep could wait. Sam had research to do.

-0-0-

Sam awoke to a ray of sunshine in his eyes and a crick in his neck. He'd fallen asleep at the table, hunched over the laptop, but it had been worth it. Brushing a stringy line of drool off his chin, Sam slowly stood, popping his back three times. Dean may have received a brand new body, but Sam's was feeling every day of abuse. Today, he felt forty. A little light stretching to work out the kinks and he was ready for coffee.

Dean didn't stir when Sam silently dressed or when the keys to the Impala jingled noisily as he pocketed them. He breathed a sigh of relief. He could pick up breakfast and be back to present the hunt to Dean by the time he was awake. A quick stop at the diner down the road for pancakes and coffee offered a chance to chat with the locals before heading back to the motel.

Dean looked up from packing his duffel when Sam walked in the door with two Styrofoam containers and the thermos. "You're up," Sam said. He glanced at the nightstand for the bottle of whisky, but it was gone.

"Your powers of observation are as outstanding as ever," Dean said, his tone laced with amusement. He sniffed the air conspicuously. "Tell me those are pancakes, Sam."

Sam chuckled. "Your ability to sniff out food is pretty outstanding, too." He set the containers on the table. Dean took a seat, lifted the lid and inhaled deeply.

"That's the stuff," Dean said happily, searching for flatware. He pointed at the thermos. "That coffee?"

"Yep." Sam sat down, handing a plastic fork and knife to Dean. He gave Dean an appraising look as he dug into the steaming pancakes. "I found us a hunt."

Dean stopped eating, his hands frozen midair, fork and knife poised for the next bite. "You're kidding me, right?"

Sam shook his head, not making direct eye contact with his brother, but watching him through too-long bangs. He hated to admit it, but it might be time for a haircut. "I found a hunt, right here in town."

The plastic flatware hit the table still griped tightly in Dean's fists. "Seriously, a hunt? Angels, demons, the whole apocalypse thing not enough for you, Sam?"

The younger hunter hesitated, unsure of the sudden role reversal. Dean sounded faintly annoyed beneath the exaggerated incredulousness. Sam pushed on after the moment of indecision passed. They both needed this. He looked up at Dean, giving his big brother his full attention. "It's a Black Dog, in the woods outside of town."

The look of surprise dropped from Dean's face, replaced by a grin. "Now you're talking."

Sam returned the smile, shoveling a forkful of pancakes into his mouth. A demonic dog wasn't mundane, not something that lacked challenge or significance. It did, however, fall into the realm of something Dean could shoot, stab, possibly even salt and burn.

The very idea of a hunt they already understood and knew how to fight, helped clear his mind, calming him. Sam rolled his head, trying to loosen the knots in his neck. He needed to put a little stability into his life where he could, no matter how odd it would seem to anyone else. This hunt would give Dean something to vent his anger and self-doubts on and it would give Sam something to focus on that didn't include guilt for events he couldn't change. Choices were important to him; choices regarding his life, and part of that life would always include his brother.

Sam looked up at Dean who was finishing his pancakes in record time. "Spotted a gym," Sam said conversationally. Dean grinned around his final mouthful.

"You think you can take me?" Dean said, a wide smile plastered on his face. Sam nodded, with a quirked eyebrow.

"Without even breaking a sweat," Sam replied, allowing the banter to infuse him with a brighter outlook.

"Oh, you are so on," Dean goaded. "I've always been able to kick your ass."

"You think so?" Sam tossed his container into the garbage can, spotting the empty bottle of alcohol. "I'm not a kid anymore, Dean."

"Bring it on, Padawan," Dean taunted.

"I thought you didn't like the new Star Wars?" Sam said, narrowing his eyes.

"Time and a place for everything," Dean said, leaning back in the chair. "Even that abomination of genius."

Sam snorted lightly. "Come on, let's go." He stood, snagging the keys from his pocket and tossed them to Dean. "If you win, I'll buy you a cheeseburger for lunch."

"There's no 'if' about it," Dean replied confidently. "Get ready to pay up."

Sam's lips curled in a smile. "Big talk for a man who just wolfed down four pancakes. You'll be lucky if you can waddle, let alone workout."

"Don't worry about me, Sam," Dean said, his eyes flashing green sparks of amusement. "I got this one in the bag."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

They'd found a somewhat private corner of the gym back behind the weight machines to spar. Sam's sweaty t-shirt clung to his chest, outlining his form. Dean realized then, just how many pounds of new muscle Sam had packed on during the four months he was gone. Which could mean only one thing, his brother was pulling his punches.

"You know, I never let you win," Dean remarked, making a sweep at Sam.

Sam dodged, countering with a jab in Dean's side. "Nice to know all the times you handed me my ass, you weren't going easy on me," Sam said with a smirk.

Dean spun around, grabbing Sam's arm and pulling it behind his back, his other arm pressing down on Sam's neck. "So, why are you doing it to me?"

Sam slipped out of Dean's hold, elbowing him in the ribs before twisting to deliver a glancing blow to Dean's jaw. "What?"

The force knocked Dean backwards, his back hitting the wall. "You telling me you're giving this all you got, Sam?" Dean asked, sucking in breaths. He pushed off the wall, circling his brother.

Sam stopped moving, dropping his arms to his sides. "The idea is sparring, Dean. It's practice." Dean glared. Sam lowered the volume of his voice. "Not knocking each other senseless right before a hunt."

Dean strode up to Sam, his chest puffed. "You don't play around with your opponent. You take him out as quickly as possible to minimize risk and injury," Dean lectured, their father's words pouring from his lips without his consent. "So, stop playing around, Sam, and do it."

He'd pushed the right buttons apparently because Sam came at him with silent speed. A solid punch turned him around as Sam's bulk hit his back pushing him up against the wall. The air whooshed out of Dean's lungs. He panted shallowly, trying to push off the wall. It was no use; Sam was the proverbial immovable object. "You want to know why, Dean?" Sam growled, his voice low. Dean nodded, no air for more. "I'm worried about you, about the drinking. You could get hurt."

Sam backed off marginally. It was enough. Dean flipped around, shoving Sam off him. "I can handle it, Sam. And you're being a little hypocritical don't you think? Weren't you just telling me how rare sobriety was for you a few months ago? _I'm_ not running around chasing demons in a drunken stupor."

"No," Sam said, his shoulders slumping. "You're not. But what you're doing, it's not going to make the pain go away, Dean. It takes time."

"That's a little cliché, don't you think?" Dean responded, his hackles rising.

"But true," Sam said. He tried to grasp Dean's arms, but the older man stumbled back staying out of his brother's reach. He saw the brief look of hurt confusion slide across Sam's face before it settled back to carefully neutral.

Dean understood; his feelings had been all over the grid since his memory had started returning. He couldn't really blame Sam for not being able to keep up with his ever-changing emotions. He clenched his fists; he just needed to regain some control over his life.

"Dean…"

Dean didn't say a word. He spun on his heel and stalked off towards the showers.

-0-0-

There'd been no cheeseburger lunch, nor conversation of any substance from the gym to the motel. The afternoon had been spent with Sam's nose in the laptop, Dean cleaning the weapons. A mere five feet and an ocean of swirling emotions had separated them.

Now, in the car, the uncomfortable silence lingered. Dean glanced sideways at his brother, his eyes momentarily straying from the road. Sam had a small flashlight out studying a map of the woods.

"Another mile, then turn right on Howard," Sam instructed.

Dean opened his mouth to respond, then clamped it shut tightly again. So far everything he'd said since the gym had either come out angry sounding or sharp. He wasn't sure why other than the screaming headache he was nursing. Right now all he wanted to do was wipe the last few hours clean and just be brothers – without any pressure from on high or the damned below.

"Right there, Dean," Sam said abruptly. He touched Dean on the shoulder, then pointed to the right.

"Got it." Dean tapped the brakes, turning the heavy car onto the side road. He glanced at Sam again. He needed to make this better before they started after the Black Dog. Distractions could prove deadly. "Sam…" He trailed off no longer certain of how to continue once he'd started.

He could feel Sam's eyes on him, studying him while he tried to formulate his next words. "It's okay, Dean," Sam said, softly.

Dean nodded, swallowing hard. Sam knew, somehow he always knew. It didn't stop his brother from pushing, but he wouldn't be Sam if he didn't. He cleared his throat.

"How much farther?" Focus on the hunt, pretend it didn't happen, that was Dean's way.

"Only about another mile." Sam folded the map, tucking it into his jacket pocket. He reached around to the backseat to snag the weapons bag, doing a last minute inventory of the contents. He looked up as Dean pulled the Impala to a stop. "Ready?"

"Hell yeah," Dean replied, with a grin. This, at least, was something he could sink his teeth into. Killing a demonic dog would definitely rank high in the gratifying category. He took a moment to grab his shotgun and check the rounds before snagging a flashlight from Sam. "You think it'll come after us?"

"Yeah, I do," Sam said. "The dog has attacked every night for the last three nights. There's no reason to assume it won't again tonight."

"Let's go," Dean announced, sliding out of the car. He didn't have to turn around to know Sam was behind him. The soft click of the passenger door and the light crunch of crisp, fallen leaves kept him aware of Sam's position.

"I'm going to head west and circle around towards you," Sam stated. He didn't wait for a reply, taking off on long legs away from Dean, and into the trees.

"Who died and left him boss?" Dean grumbled. His curling white breath lingered in the air leaving trailing wisps in his wake. A coyote yipped in the distance, drawing Dean's attention. His headache, along with his dark mood, faded to the background; it whispered to him instead of shouting, giving him a little space to breathe. There was a Black Dog to hunt.

The full moon illuminated the spaces between the trees, making visibility without his flashlight possible. He kept it firmly in his left hand, ready to flick on at a moment's notice, but there was no need to advertise his position to a predator whose senses far outweighed his own. He glanced to his right. There was no sign of Sam. His brother apparently had the same idea regarding the light as he did.

A hoot owl announced its presence as Dean walked past. The cold night air chilled his nose and fingers. He'd always hated wearing gloves when hunting, avoiding it when he could. Silence blanketed him, growing oppressive. Crashing underbrush brought him to full alert. The loud cracking had to be caused by something big, much bigger than his brother, yet somehow Dean knew Sam was running towards him. He lifted his weapon. His brother approaching at top speed meant he was pursuing or being pursued. Either way, Dean was ready.

A shot rang out from the woods.

"Shit!" Sam shouted, his voice carrying on the wind. The snapping of twigs grew louder. "Dean, look out, it's coming!"

Dean raised his shotgun, flicking on the flashlight as the crashing stopped. Red eyes, illuminated by the light, blinked not more than twenty feet in front of him. The dog growled. Dean fired. His shot hit the mark, the dog yelped in pain.

Sam burst through the underbrush, his light shining first on the canine, then on Dean. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean said, shining his light on the Black Dog. "That wee beastie, not as much."

Sam offered him a small grin and a raised eyebrow that questioned Dean's sanity. He pulled a silver knife from its sheath. With speed and aggressive precision that Dean had rarely seen from his brother, Sam stabbed the lumbering canine in the heart.

It yowled in pain, its death throes knocking the youngest Winchester off his feet. Fighting until the end, the dog gnashed his teeth, snapping at Sam. He scooted away, quickly rising to his feet.

"Woooo!" Dean shouted from the adrenaline of the hunt, the sheer joy of accomplishing what they'd set out to do. His little brother chuckled, walking forward and crouching low.

"It's dead," Sam said, dropping his hand. "Salt and burn?"

"You know it," Dean said, walking over to his brother. Sam dropped the duffel at his feet.

"I'll get some kindling," Sam said, nodding over to his left. "The way that dog went crashing through there it's probably all toothpicks."

"Fine, I'll get things started here," Dean said. He watched as his brother picked his way back through the woods, his flashlight bobbing in the trees some distance away. Dean crouched, searching through the duffel for the salt and lighter fluid. He was looking forward to this part.

He set the items down next to the Black Dog, then noticed Sam's knife glinting in the moonlight. He grasped it tightly by the hilt. "You won't need this anymore," he said, addressing the dog. Dean pulled out the knife with one sure motion, wiping the blade on his jeans. The hilt was rough on his skin.

Pulling the lighter out of his pocket, Dean used the flame to examine the knife. 'Sammy' was engraved on the handle. A smile pulled across his face. He'd given this knife to his little brother for his eleventh birthday.

Knowing Sam would want the knife stowed safely away, he reached down, placing it carefully into the duffel. "Hey, Sam, you planning on coming back some time tonight?" he called in the direction his younger brother had headed.

"Bite me!" The words had laughter in them and they bounced around the woods.

"No thanks!" Dean shouted; a mistake he soon realized as the noise caused his headache to flare. He stood, searching the velvet darkness for Sam as his flashlight bobbed closer.

"A lot of it's pretty wet," Sam said, "It was harder than I thought it'd be."

"So, we use more lighter fluid." Dean took an armful of wood from his brother, dropping it down by the Black Dog.

"You know you're a closet pyromaniac, don't you?" Sam asked with a chuckle. "I left a big branch, I'll be right back."

His brother turned to walk away. "What do you mean, _closet _pyromaniac?" Dean asked, following behind a chuckling Sam.

"I'll be right back," Sam repeated, and then he was gone, disappearing into the trees.

Behind Dean, a quiet, low growl shocked him into movement. He dove for the duffel, searching for his shotgun. The growl grew louder, drawing his attention back to the canine. Red eyes stared back. With a tremendous lunge, the dog was on its feet headed for the woods.

Halfway between Dean and the trees, the dog stopped, lifting its huge head, sniffing the air. It turned, defiantly running with great huffing breaths in Sam's direction. The older hunter's fingers found the shotgun and he stood, his feet slipping on wet leaves as he sighted the gun.

It was only a fraction of a second slower than his normal reaction time, a hair's breadth of space, but it was enough. Everything Sam said was suddenly brought home in a horrific way. He hadn't wanted to see it, but it was there.

He'd fallen prey to the patented Winchester method of coping with the unbearable, drinking, and more than he should. He'd told himself, _convinced_ himself that everything was fine. But he'd been wrong, and it was affecting his timing.

And it left his brother vulnerable, about to pay the price for his mistake.

"Sam!" he shouted, a great puff of white exploding in the air from the force.

"Dean?" Sam called, his voicing sounding much closer than Dean expected. The younger hunter appeared twenty feet away, along the tree line. It only seemed to take him a few precious moments to realize how much danger he was in.

It was a moment too long.

The gigantic dog hit Sam square in the chest, knocking him off his feet. "Sam!" Dean shouted again. He willed himself to move, to run, or to react. _Damn it, you idiot, move! _His legs responded, eating up the distance to his brother.

The goliath dog growled, his jaws snapping perilously close to the youngest Winchester's neck. Out of reflex, Sam lifted an arm to protect himself. Dean swore he could hear the dog's teeth crunch through Sam's bone as it bit down on his brother's arm, shaking its massive head.

Sam's scream of pain echoed off the naked woods, the blast from Dean's shotgun matching it in reply.

_TBC_

………………………………………………………….**Supernatural**…………………………………………………….

AN: Woo Hoo, I made it in just under the wire! I picked up on your hint of what you wanted to read, now, I just hope I go the direction with it you would have wanted. :O)

Thanks to all who took the time to read!


	2. To Accept the Things I Cannot Change

**Pain Management**

**Disclaimer: **The boys, the car, and the concept belong to Kripke and the CW. The love belongs to us.

**Beta'd: **By Muffy Morrigan – thanks for catching that horrendous homophone abuse and the suggestions! And Phx, yeah, that's right; I made her help with her own story. LOL

_This story is a Christmas present for Phx, a great author, wonderful friend, terrific lady._

_Incidentally, I tinkered after they beta'd so any remaining errors belong to me. _

**Time Line: **Shortly after _Heaven and Hell _spoilers abound for anything up to and including Season 4.

**Warning: **Language. Sam drops the F-bomb…sort of.

…………………………………………**To Accept the Things I Cannot Change**………………………………….

Dean's aim was true. The muscular haunches of the dog barely twitched as the bullet hit home. It turned its head to growl at him, Sam's arm still clenched tightly in its teeth. Dean could hear his brother's groans over the snarling beast. The hunter sighted his weapon, and the dog, apparently having had enough, took off into the woods dragging Sam along his underbelly.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, running after the canine. His flashlight bounced along the forested ground. The Black Dog may have been faster, but it left a trail a blind man could follow. The years of training his dad had subjected him to made it easy to track the dog despite the widening gap. It was taking too long to catch up though, and he pressed on, pushing himself to run faster.

The clouds rolled in, obscuring the moon, blotting out the silvery illumination. The woods were dark save for his flashlight and he stumbled over a hidden root, the rain-slicked leaves cursing his equilibrium again. He landed hard, knocking the air from his lungs. Then, he was off and running again before he had a chance to get his breath back. When he broke into a small clearing, the beam from his light glinted off the red eyes of the Black Dog. There was no need for stealth now; the animal knew he was here.

As he drew closer, Dean saw his brother, pinned to the ground on his belly, the dog's tremendous paws on his back. Sam breathed in small hitching gasps, fingers scrambling on the muddy ground for purchase. _Son of a bitch, it looks bigger than before, much bigger. _The canine shifted its weight forward, stilling Sam's movements completely.

Dean fired his weapon several times in rapid succession. With a howling bark, the Black Dog raced off into the woods. The hunter ran forward, dropping to his knees beside the younger man. "Sam?" He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, shaking it gently. "Sammy?"

Sam sucked in a sharp breath as his lungs resumed functioning. His eyes popped open, searching wildly around him, each breath sounded strained ending with a wheezing squeak. "Dean?" he said, weakly, his voice a fraction of its normal volume.

"Yeah, it's me," Dean said. "It's gone." Sam tried moving, falling back to the soggy ground with a groan. Instead he grasped Dean's shirt, pulling him down closer.

"Aw, fuck," Sam said, his face taut.

"Ribs?" Dean patted the hand holding his shirt.

"Yeah," Sam said with a grunt. "Well no." He shook his head. "Aufhocker."

"Gesundheit." Dean gently turned Sam onto his back, mindful of his injured arm.

"Exactly." Sam panted, the lines of his face etched in agony. "God," he whispered.

"Hey, it'll be okay," Dean said, shifting closer. He shined the light on his brother's injured arm. "I need to take a look at that."

Sam pulled his arm closer to his chest. "I'm fine, we need to move. It'll be back." He struggled to get to his feet, emitting little grunts of pain. He stopped when Dean placed his hands on the younger man's shoulders, but Sam persisted. "We need to get back to the car."

"Not until I take a look at your arm," Dean insisted. He cursed himself for not grabbing the duffel bag with their additional weapons, ammo, and first aid kit, but something about Sam needing him always overrode his clearer thinking, kicking primal instincts into gear.

Protect his family, finish the hunt, _everything_ else could wait.

Dean's eyes trailed to Sam's arm. Patches of dark red discolored his brother's brown winter jacket. Sam hissed when Dean gently moved his injured limb to get a closer look. The sleeve was warm and damp with the younger man's blood. An iron-rich scent hit his nose.

"I'm fine," Sam repeated. "The Aufhocker is an undisputed champion tracker. The longer we stay here, the more danger we're in."

"And if we don't stop now to control the bleeding and you can't make it back to the car?" Dean's tone took on the note of annoyed big brother. "I'm not dragging your heavy ass the rest of the way."

Sam's jaw muscles bunched, a clear sign he was holding back a retort, but he didn't say anything. He shrugged out of his coat; good arm first, allowing Dean to ease the material from his injured arm. Dean took a good look at the puncture wounds, surprised to find the flesh itself in relatively one piece, despite all the blood. However, from the oddly swelling shape, it was obvious Sam's arm was broken.

"The aufhocker kills its victims by ripping out their throats or by crushing them," Sam said.

Dean looked up, recognizing his brother's need to distract himself from his injuries. "So, when he couldn't manage the first, he tried to turn you into a Sammy-pancake?" he asked. He removed his leather jacket and outer shirt, then carefully wrapped the younger man's arm tightly in green and black flannel.

Sam twitched his arm, pulling his lips back in a grimace. "Something like that," he replied, staring intently at Dean.

The hunter slipped back into his jacket, but all the while he could feel his brother's appraising gaze. "What?" he asked, finally.

The chestnut mop shook in the negative. "Nothing." Sam searched the ground, found his coat and after a bit of struggling, got it on, zipping it up tight to his neck.

"Sam, what?" He placed a hand on his younger brother's shoulder. It was enough to keep Sam from being able stand.

Hazel eyes met his, pain barely masked behind the shuttered depths. "It's nothing really, Dean," Sam said, his voice thinly laced with an air of embarrassment. Dean raised an eyebrow, daring his brother to deny it again. He hadn't lost his touch, because the younger man ducked his head and mumbled a barely audible response. "You just haven't called me Sammy in awhile and I was trying to figure out why you were tonight, that's all."

Wet snowflakes mixed with rain drifted down from the night sky. The white crystals clung to the brothers' hair, decorated their eyelashes and dampened their clothing. Dean didn't feel the chill of the night breeze as it gained intensity. His heart dropped. Had he really denied his brother something so small? He opened his mouth to ask, but a low moan interrupted his thought process. "Sam?"

"Sorry," Sam apologized. "I think I'm going to need some help."

A cry was torn from the younger man's lips when Dean hoisted him to his feet. Sam stood, hunched over, his hand clasping Dean's arm in a painful grip. He panted through the pain, slowly straightening to a standing position. "It's your back, isn't it?" Dean asked, lifting his brother's shirt.

"It's pretty much everything," Sam said, his voice tight with pain. "It felt like an elephant was crushing me."

"Close," Dean said, his light flicking over the reddening bruises the size of dinner plates. "It kept getting bigger."

Sam slowly turned to face him, eyes wide, eyebrows lifted in surprise. "It changes size?"

Dean dropped the shirt-tail, smoothing the material back in place. "It must have been the size of a horse when I caught up to you, only bulkier, heavier."

"Felt like it," Sam said. His fingers loosened their grip on Dean's arm, but didn't pull completely away. "I can do this, let's go."

He nodded, watching as Sam took a small step forward. They wouldn't be going anywhere fast. "Nice and easy," Dean said. "Remember, slow and steady wins the race."

Sam stopped mid-stride, turning his head carefully to look at him. The corners of his tightly-pressed mouth twitched in amusement. "Not the way you ever told the story."

Dean laughed, his brother joining in. It was short-lived and ended with a coughing fit that left Sam bent in half and gasping for air. Dean hovered a hand over his brother's back, not entirely sure what to do. The old Sammy would have taken comfort from his touch, this new, hunter-Sam, he wasn't as sure. Deciding that when it came down to it, he was still the big brother and his will prevailed, he rubbed gentle circles on Sam's back until the coughing subsided.

Hazel eyes flooded with gratitude and something else Dean couldn't quite pinpoint. "You ready?"

"Yeah," Sam rasped, walking carefully beside his brother.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The hunters walked slowly, but everything seemed to cause Sam to stumble. The slick leaves hiding beneath a thin blanket of wet snow, a partially obscured fallen branch, or the latest, a large stone. Sam fell forward and would have connected with the ground had Dean not held him upright. The movement jarred his back; he felt a pinch and his knees gave out. "Oomph," Dean grunted, following Sam to the snow. "You okay?"

His legs felt numb, sluggish to respond. Sam shifted and his back sang in agony, his arm pounding a percussive accompaniment. "M'fine, gimme a minute."

Dean frowned, obviously not pleased. "You're not fine, so why do you keep pretending?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?" He wanted to chuckle, amused at his brother's confusion when denying pain was the Dean Winchester way, but he didn't dare. Last time it hadn't worked out too well for him, his ribs still ached from the coughing.

His big brother rewarded him with an eye roll. "Oh come on, you can't blame all your bad habits on me." Sam's eyebrow climbed higher. Dean snorted, the diversion technique obviously worked. "Dad's gotta take some of the blame."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, okay, I'll agree to that," he said, unable to keep a pained laugh from escaping. "Help me up."

Dean stood behind Sam, encircling his chest in a strong grip. The younger man braced himself just before he was pulled almost to standing. Fire shot down Sam's spine, a cry wrenched from him. The world blackened, flipped, he rested his head on bent knees. He could feel Dean softly rubbing his back again, the muscles twitching in response to the recent trauma. The sound of ragged breathing filled his ears followed by a low murmur.

"It's okay," Dean said. "Just breathe through it."

"Dean?" He shivered. The cold, the blood loss, it was all catching up to him.

"I gotcha," Dean said, reassuringly.

Sam folded inside. The familiar words from his brother, something he'd honestly thought he'd never hear again only a few short months ago, comforted him, soothed the ever-present ache more than he could say. Dean struggled with his own scars and demons, but he was still Dean. Something he wasn't always certain he could say about himself.

"I gotcha, Sammy," Dean repeated, his warm presence surrounding Sam. "Just breathe through it."

"Sorry," Sam wheezed. He tapped Dean on the knee. "Try again?"

The snow squeaked as Dean shifted in front of him. Concerned green eyes roamed over him. "I don't know," Dean said, brushing snow out of Sam's hair. "You're beat to hell, Sam. I could be making things worse having you walk out of here."

Sam furrowed his brow at his brother's choice of words. "We _have_ to walk out of here. That thing'll be back, and it takes consecrated iron to get rid of it. I only have silver bullets."

The older man looked over his shoulder, then back to Sam, a frown on his face. "It's another mile, maybe two. Think you can make it?"

"I can make it," Sam said, his tone firm. "Just help me up." Dean pursed his lips, obviously not as certain as Sam was about his ability to walk. The truth was he knew he could. He'd had to push through pain and exhaustion before when Dean was gone and he had no one else. It didn't mean it would be easy, or that he was looking forward to it, but he was capable. "I'm sure," he said, answering his brother's unspoken question.

Strong arms under his armpits lifted him to standing, stayed on his back until he got his balance. His entire body screamed to lie down, but Sam ignored it. "Just take it slow," Dean said. "Like before."

He nodded, taking a tentative step forward. His knee shook, but didn't buckle. He felt Dean shift beside him and he reached out, fisting his brother's jacket tightly in his hand. "Like before?"

"Yep," Dean said. He wrapped an arm around Sam's back. "We're almost there."

Sam snorted lightly, easing his grip on the other man's jacket. "It's a little late to lie to me after you already told me how far it is."

"Since when?" Dean grinned briefly, before pulling Sam's uninjured arm over his shoulders and taking a step forward.

The younger Winchester grunted as he followed. "This sucks," he moaned. The arm around his back trembled and Sam frowned. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm good," Dean replied. He looked behind them, tightening his grip until there was a squeak of protest from Sam and he eased up.

"It's following us, isn't it?" Sam didn't attempt to turn around for a look; fairly certain it would have landed him on his backside.

"Yeah," Dean said, guiding him to the right. "Not sure why it hasn't made a move yet."

"The silver hurt it," Sam said, his voice tight. "Not enough to stop it, but it would have been…annoying."

"Annoying is good," Dean said, prodding him further to the right.

"The car is that way," Sam protested, attempting to push back against his brother, regretting it instantly. His back hurt worse than it did after the demon-witch had pressed him into a wall hard enough to leave a dent nearly a year ago.

"But the weapons bag, isn't," Dean said, not stopping. "And it's closer."

"Good plan."

"Hey, all my plans are good." The older hunter urged Sam to walk faster.

Sam didn't waste the breath responding to Dean's attempts at humor and distraction. He concentrated instead on putting one foot in front of the other, struggling to keep up with Dean.

Snow fell silently around the brothers, bringing false peace to the woods surrounding them. Dean set a pace just under a brisk walk and yet it could have been a jog for all the trouble Sam was having in spite of his brother's help. He recognized the warning signs this time, but it was too late. One minute he was walking beside Dean, the next he was sprawled out on the wet ground.

"Sam," Dean said, crouching down next to him and shaking his shoulder. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Stop," Sam protested, groaning low in his throat. He rocked, cradling his arm. "Please." A low growl from the black trees answered. He lifted his head, trying to see the dog's eyes in the darkness surrounding them. Sam was hefted to his feet without warning and bodily man-handled at a demanding pace.

The landscape blurred past until he landed in the snow again, this time, a controlled fall to the ground assisted by his brother. Dean rummaged through the duffel pulling out his sawed off shotgun. Sam could feel the rumble as the canine lumbered towards them. Vibrations shook the earth beneath him, and he tensed, preparing for the impact. "Dean," he barely got the warning word out when he was knocked the rest of the way to the ground. "Aaaggghhh!"

His cry faded out as air was squeezed out of his lungs. His injured arm was pinned under his belly. The hot breath of the aufhocker hit his neck accompanied by a deep growl. The weight on his back grew heavier, pressing him into the ground. He felt a rib break, his insides shift. The sharp agony in his arm screamed for attention. Distantly he heard Dean shouting, the sound of gunfire and suddenly he could breathe again.

Sam panted in shallow, ragged breaths, each one cutting through his lungs like fire. He twisted his head, watching size eleven boots charge across the snowy ground towards the dog that had retreated to a point midway between them and heavy underbrush. The canine twisted, snapping at Dean before turning tail and running back into the woods.

Dean crouched low next to him, concern etched clearly in ever line on his face. "Sam, you okay?"

The younger man nodded, attempting to push off the ground. "Aah, God, I…I can't." He shivered, the violent shaking tortured bruised muscle.

"It's alright, take it easy." Dean rolled him from his stomach into a semi-reclined position on his back.

Every movement seared from his back, down his legs, burning a path out the top of his toes. There was no way he could make it back to the Impala. "Leave me, Dean." Sam spoke low, his voice barely above a stage whisper.

"What in our history makes you think I'm going to leave you?" Dean asked, angrily. "I wouldn't do that, Sam."

Sam clutched at Dean's t-shirt, his brow furrowing. "I know," he said, surety rang throughout his tone. "That's why I'm telling you, just leave me a gun and go."

Dean shook his head. "No."

"Yes, Dean, you have to. The iron rounds are in the trunk and I'll just slow you down." Sam drew in a ragged breath. "Our best chance is if you leave me here. We need to stop this thing."

Dean curled around Sam, offering body heat to still the shivering. "And I need my brother," he whispered into the shaggy hair. "Don't give up, Sammy. I sure as hell haven't."

Sam's fingers tightened in his brother's t-shirt before falling boneless to the damp earth. "I'm sorry," he sighed as his eyes fluttered closed.

………….……………………………………………….**Supernatural**…………………………………………………………

AN: Thanks to everyone who has been reading!

While I hate to put a little plug at the bottom of Phx's story, I know I'm going to get well-deserved poking, so…I took today off work and I am working away at Vampires (as well as one scene for the next chapter for this story)!

It's actually sunny here today though, so a walk may be on the agenda as well. Blue sky, sunshine, and crisp air – beautiful.


	3. Courage to Change the Things I Can

**Pain Management**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. More's the pity.

**Beta'd: **By the talented and oh-so-wise duo of Muffy Morrigan and Carocali who very graciously put up with me.

_I played a great deal after they beta'd so any and all remaining errors are my own._

_This story is for Phx (who yes, beat me to the finish). Thank you for the comments and the last minute hand-holding and recommendation. I was wearing myself out over that one!_

……….…..…………………………**Courage to Change the Things I Can**……………………………………….

Dean curled protectively around his brother, attempting to conserve body heat. Sam's injury was severe enough; he'd lost enough blood that the older man feared he was going into shock. "Come on, Sam," Dean urged, not for the first time. "Wake up."

Sam didn't respond, but something did. A low growl bounced off the trees. Dean glanced around the shadowed woods. The sky was slowly lightening, having changed from deep, black velvet to midnight blue, but it left plenty of time for the aufhocker to attack again before dawn. Anger flared in Dean's chest, hot enough to scorch his insides. He was tired of this hunt and more than a little pissed off that the lumbering canine had eluded him three times. Enough was enough.

A sharp barking noise brought Sam to alert with a jerking gasp. He groaned; the injured arm draped over his stomach twitched. "Where is it?" he asked, softly.

"It's not getting you again," Dean said, his tone hard. Without thinking, he pulled Sam tighter against his chest. 

"Gotta breathe," Sam said, with strained amusement. Dean softened his grip. He could feel the stuttered breaths through the layers of clothing they both wore. Sam needed out of there.

Dean eased out from behind his brother, standing slowly and walking silently to the duffel. The familiar _snick_ of the machete being pulled from the bag sounded loudly in the hunter's ears. He moved to stand in front of Sam, raising the blade to an offensive position. "Here, doggy, doggy, doggy."

He heard a pained snort from his brother, but Dean focused on the woods, his senses narrowing. The dark trees pulled forward and stood out in sharp contrast from the underbrush, any slight movement catching his attention. A single bird warbled out a morning song to the soon-to-be-rising sun. Sam panted on the ground behind him and to his left, hidden in the trees, was the aufhocker.

It moved quietly for such a large beast, blending in almost perfectly with the surroundings. A flash of deeper black in the expanse of darkness was all it took. Dean was the better hunter. He tightened his grip on the hilt. This time it wasn't getting anywhere close to Sam. This time it was going down, screw the consecrated iron.

"Dean," Sam said, his teeth chattering. "Can you see it?"

He didn't answer, squaring his stance to meet the canine head on. Though it moved stealthily, vibrations of the running dog sang up from the ground through the soles of his feet. With a snarling growl, it emerged from the woods. As it neared, Dean stepped forward to meet it, the machete reaching out first.

The massive canine lunged, but the hunter was quicker. He used the long blade to cut the dog's neck, then lifted his left arm, Colt in hand, firing three shots of silver into the broad, black chest. The beast howled in pain, dropping to the ground. Rage fueled his strength as Dean swung the machete again; a distinctive wet slicing noise signaled the separation of head from body of the aufhocker.

Dean approached the dog cautiously, machete still at the ready. The stench wafting up from the steaming insides activated his gag reflex. The hunter lightly kicked the severed head a foot farther from the body. He pressed the back of his hand into his nose to block the scent. "And I thought it smelled bad on the outside."

A groan from behind him had Dean spinning on his heel. "You aren't planning to stuff me in there, are you?" Sam asked between shallow breaths. He had managed a semi-reclined position propped on one elbow. "It's freezing out here, but I'm not _that_ cold."

Despite the circumstances, Dean couldn't stop a grin from flashing across his face as he crossed back towards Sam. "Nope, thought I'd make a really big fire instead."

"You're sure it's dead?" Sam asked. Dean narrowed his eyes, realizing from Sam's angle he couldn't have seen much of the action.

"Nothing lives without its head, Sam," Dean said. Sam nodded wearily, his elbow sliding out from underneath him as he slipped back to the ground. "Can this thing reanimate?"

"I don't think so," Sam said. He turned his head to follow Dean's movements. "Need help?"

"And you plan to do that, how?" Dean asked, stopping mid-stride. The question actually seemed to confuse Sam. He furrowed his brow, as he contemplated an answer. Dean crouched down next to his brother. "Don't move. All the wood you gathered earlier is near here."

Sam's face relaxed with relief. "I can do that."

"Good," Dean said, patting his brother lightly on the shoulder. "I'll be right back." He waited for a nod from Sam, then moved away to gather wood.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam frowned as Dean walked away. He'd been trying to distract his brother with a hunt, a simple Black Dog run amok to increase Dean's confidence, keep his mind occupied, maybe just let them hunt together like before. Instead he'd been careless.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, tugging on the tangled strands. "Should've done my research better," Sam mumbled under his breath. His mind flashed through the crime scene photos. The bruising, the internal injuries, they made perfect sense in retrospect.

He shifted on the wet ground, trying to find a comfortable position. He failed. A cold breeze rushed over him and Sam shivered. He was incredibly tired, the lure of sleep irresistible and his eyes slid closed.

A gentle shake roused him, his eyes snapping open. "Hey, no more sleeping," Dean said, his face puckered with concern.

"Tired," Sam said, blinking lazily. "Cold."

"It's practically Canadian," Dean agreed. "But stay awake, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Sam replied. He wished he could sit up, it would definitely make it easier to stay focused, but the thought of moving quashed his desire. Dean moved away, his footsteps muffled by the soft snow. He was pretty sure he drifted off again because Dean's arm around his shoulders woke him.

"I gotcha, Sam," Dean said. "Don't fight me and breathe."

Irrational fear climbed from his stomach up his throat, choking his words. "What're you gonna do?"

"I'm going to help you sit up, that's all," Dean said. "Not all the way, just far enough to help you breathe a little easier."

"I can breathe fine," Sam protested. He didn't want to move. He wanted the hunt over and he wanted a warm bed, and that was all. Moving would hurt like, well, it would hurt.

"Sure," Dean said, his tone amicable, which merely softened the sardonic edges. "That's why you sound like an asthmatic ghoul."

Sam smiled. Only his brother came up similes involving ghouls. _God, I missed Dean._

The arm around his shoulders tightened and without warning, Sam found himself reclined at a thirty degree angle instead of flat on his back. Pain lanced down his spine. He panted through it, his vision clearing enough to see his brother's frowning face. Whatever Dean had used to brace him was rough and hard, probably a log. "I'm okay."

Dean's face relaxed, the lines around his eyes softening. "I'll be right back," he said, patting Sam lightly on the chest.

Sam nodded, keeping his heavy eyelids at half-mast. He watched as Dean made short work of stacking wood around the dog. Sam bit back a laugh when his brother lightly kicked the aufhocker's head closer to its body, pushing a few of the sticks underneath it. He crinkled his brow, trying to decide if the canine was shrinking back to its original size.

A liberal dose of salt and an entire can of lighter fluid later, the elder hunter stood back slightly, preparing to toss a lighter onto the wood. Sam rolled his eyes. Dean had used a copious amount of accelerant. He really was a closet pyromaniac. "Dean?" Sam called softly.

"Be right there," Dean answered, tossing the lighter. A large fireball mushroomed into the air, the flames heating Sam's skin.

"Dean!" The younger hunter raised his head off the snowy log.

The older man walked around the fire, crouching down next to Sam. "Hey," Dean said, lightly tapping Sam's arm.

"Thank, God." Sam tried sitting up further, but his face contorted and he fell back. He gripped Dean's knee. "I thought, I couldn't see you, and the flames…" Sam tapered off, flushing hot with embarrassment at his reaction.

"I'm okay. You on the other hand, have looked better." Sam rolled his eyes. "I can't give you the good stuff," Dean said, twisting to rummage through the duffel for the med-kit with the flashlight. "But I think we have some ibuprofen in here." He found the bottle, handing four little brown pills to Sam. "I'd rather not mess with your arm. It looks like the bleeding has slowed down and it'll be painful to unwrap it."

"I don't think I can walk, Dean," Sam said, his tone apologetic.

"I was thinking more of an assisted carry," Dean said, shouldering the duffel. "I'll help you stand, you can lean on me and I'll do all the work. You just have to stay on your feet."

Sam's brow knitted, his hand clenching his brother's knee tightly. "I'll try." Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Sam cut him off. "No more 'Star Wars' quotes."

"Watch your mouth kid, or you're gonna find yourself floating home," Dean said, with a smirk. Sam rolled his eyes and groaned softly. The older man moved behind Sam and he heard Dean shifting from one position to another, felt him trying to find the best way to place his hands. "I'm sorry, there's no way to do this without hurting you."

"I know," Sam said through clenched teeth. "It's okay."

"No, it's not," Dean said, patting him on the shoulder once. "On three. One, two…" He grunted as he lifted Sam's additional weight.

"I'm on – to you – about that one," Sam said, panting hard through the pain spike.

"Yeah, well, I may have to mix it up a little then," Dean said. Sam made a noise of disbelief. "What?"

"It's just you're not big on change," Sam said. He leaned heavily on Dean, barely able to stand hunched over. "Same car, same coat, always with the scissors, and on three." The rant left Sam breathless, coughing in the cold air.

"Shut up and walk, Sam," Dean said, but there was no real heat to his words. He staggered on the first step, instantly re-evaluating his stance, managing to support Sam's additional weight.

"This won't work," Sam said, tripping over his own feet and falling hard against Dean. He was too tall, too heavy for Dean to help him all the way to the car.

"It will work," Dean said, hitching Sam up further on his shoulder. The younger man grunted in discomfort. "We can do it."

Sam nodded wearily, allowing his brother to guide him along the snowy path.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean wasn't as certain as he sounded; the going was extremely slow. Sam stumbled several times, becoming increasingly dependent on him. His brother shook, whether from cold or his injuries, Dean wasn't certain, but it didn't seem to matter. Either way, Sam needed out of the cold. The younger man tripped, fell hard against him, Dean barely kept them both standing.

"Hey," Dean said, concerned at his brother's lack of reaction. "Come on, Sam, you can do this." Chestnut brown strands bobbed up and down, in an uncontrolled head nod. He noticed Sam's broken arm dangled loosely by his side, fresh tracks of red on his fingers; his arm must have been bumped or jostled at some point causing the wounds to bleed freely again. They were running low on time.

On the next step, Sam's knees buckled, sending both Winchesters to the ground. Dean swore, moving around to kneel by his brother's head. He lightly slapped Sam's cheek. "Wake up, Sam. We're almost there, I promise."

Sam moaned, weakly pushing him away. "Leave me alone. I don't care, it doesn't matter anymore." The words were mumbled and low, Dean had a difficult time deciphering the meaning, but the despair was easy enough to pick up on.

Dean closed his eyes. It seemed both of them visited hell while they slept. Dean couldn't escape the feeling his brother was still holding a little something of himself back and it scared him because Sam's secrets had always revolved around his abilities. "Aw, Sammy," Dean said. He tapped his brother on the shoulder until he was rewarded by slits of hazel. "I'll help you, just work with me."

"Dean?" Sam's brow knitted in apparent confusion, his eyes roving over Dean. Sam gripped his leather jacket until it squeaked in protest. "Where?"

"The aufhocker, the woods," Dean supplied. He brushed Sam's long bangs out of his eyes. "You're hurt, remember? We need to get you up and moving and get out of here."

"Okay," Sam said, managing the same tone of compliance he'd used when they were both kids, back in the days his brother thought Dean hung the moon.

Dean took a good look at Sam. Somewhere inside his all grown up brother was that little kid. He'd seen it once or twice even the last few months when Armageddon was literally knocking at their back door. But there was no way Sam looked at him that way anymore. He couldn't possibly after Dean had confessed what he'd done in hell. Dean coughed to clear the lump in his throat.

"That's m'boy," Dean murmured, helping Sam to his feet. They set off again, moving even slower this time. His anxiety grew over the time lost. By the time they made it to the car, sun rays were breaking through the trees. Sam was more unconscious than aware as Dean lowered him into the seat.

"Cockroaches," Sam mumbled, reaching out blindly for his brother. His fingers found the collar of Dean's shirt, pulling him closer.

He placed a hand on the back of the seat to keep from falling onto Sam. "What?"

"Coachroaches live without their heads," Sam explained, as if it were the most important fact in the world rather than a random bit of trivia. "For approximately nine days until they starve to death."

"Yeah, okay, Sam," Dean said. "We gotta go." Sam nodded, relinquishing his hold on his brother's shirt, his eyes sliding closed. Dean noticed dried blood in the corners of Sam's mouth. He raced around the car, gunning the engine the moment he was seated. He drove carefully over the bumpy forest road, but the instant he hit the highway, Dean cut the reins loose giving the Impala its free head. There was no motel fix-up in their future this time. Sam needed a hospital.

-0-0-

They'd whisked Sam away, given Dean forms to fill out and sign. His world reduced in sight and sound to the bright white admission papers and his skin scraping along the forms as he wrote. He finished, finally, handing the clipboard back to the decidedly very young, very pretty nurse. She looked fourteen. Dean suddenly felt very old.

She told him to take a seat, that the doctor would be out later to give him an update, and then she turned back to the computer, starting to type all the information he'd just provided into the system.

Dean fidgeted, the chair not terribly comfortable, but it wasn't the chair that caused his discomfort. For an Emergency Department waiting room it was way too quiet. There was nothing here to distract him from his fears or his memories. He needed something to do, somewhere to take his restless legs or he'd have to vent his frustration on something.

Patience had never been Dean Winchester's strongest character trait.

In the end, he asked the nurse to page him when Sam's surgeon was available and left. He wandered through the corridors, tore up and down the stairwells, paced from one end of the facility to the other and back. He all but collapsed from exhaustion into a large, puffy armchair situated by a window overlooking the winter-dead courtyard garden.

His eyelids drifted closed, he breathed deeply, and screams followed him into the dark. Not the usual unearthly screams of tortured souls, _the souls he tortured_, his brain corrected, these were more familiar, more piercing. All of them Sam, every time his brother had called to him for help, yelled in pain, or cried, no matter how small every one of them ripped through his mind.

Dean gasped, scrubbing a shaking hand down his face before clenching it tightly into a fist. He had to get a grip, had to learn to live with himself, because he wasn't putting Sam in danger to escape from his pain again. He'd find another way. The vestiges of despair warred with guilt for top billing as he pushed the last of the memories from his mind.

"Who are you here for, son?" Dean jumped, cursing the fatigue and withdrawal that dulled his reflexes. A small, wrinkled gentleman sat in the chair opposite him.

"My brother." Dean gazed out the window at nothing.

"My wife," the man said. A moment later an arm stretched out to Dean, drawing his attention back. "What's your name?"

Dean shook the gnarled hand. "Dean."

"Carl Schrader," the gentleman replied, nodding his head.

Dean wondered idly how exactly men kept those little yamakas on their heads. The man in front of him was diminutive in size, maybe all of five foot four, but he had a gentle strength of caretaker and provider that Dean recognized.

"He's going to be okay, your brother…?" Carl asked, placing a hand on the armrest of Dean's chair to lower himself into the one next to it.

"Sam. And yes, he will," Dean answered, surprised at the conviction in his voice. There wasn't another option, not really. "They're concerned because he may have internal injuries."

Carl patted his hand softly. "He's a fighter, then?"

Dean expelled a puff of air. "You don't know the half of it."

A smile pulled the corners of the elderly man's face, bunching his wrinkles. The man had obviously spent a lifetime smiling. "In this case, that's good." The grin faded, and a shiny wetness appeared in Carl's eyes, magnified by thick glasses. "My Yuty, she's a fighter, too."

Dean shifted in his chair. He didn't want to be rude to the older man, but he didn't want to talk about what had happened with anyone. He nodded politely at the man's words, but turned his head to stare out the window again.

He heard the sniff, the rustle of clothing as the little man found a handkerchief, and then a loud honking noise as Mr. Schrader blew his nose. He closed his eyes briefly. He didn't want this, but apparently, the universe did. "Hey, you okay?" Dean asked.

Carl nodded, his black-rimmed glasses slipping down his face. "Yah, don't you worry about me," he said, with a shaking Yiddish lilt. He gave Dean a watery glance. "_I'll_ be okay."

Dean caught the hidden meaning, and he twisted in his chair to give the elderly gentleman his full attention. "I'm sorry."

Carl nodded, wiping his nose vigorously with the white square of cloth. "I'm sorry, too."

Dean swallowed hard. The muscles in his jaw clenched tight. He wasn't unloading years of emotional baggage on a nice little man with a sick wife. "Sam'll be fine."

"I wasn't speaking about your brother. How long?" Carl reached over to squeeze his wrist gently, then released it.

The younger man's brow scrunched. "How long what?"

"The drinking?" Mr. Schrader asked, conviction in his tone.

"Why would you think…?" Dean started, only to be interrupted.

"Your hands, the way they shake, the sweating," a smile tugged at the wrinkles again. "You smell a little bit stale, too." Dean didn't answer, his mouth went dry. When Carl next spoke, his voice was soft. "I've seen my fair share of people coping with the unthinkable. Is that how it happened?"

Dean's heart sank. He could barely stomach the idea of facing Sam as it was. If the whole world could see it, he was a fool for not being able to. He didn't say anything, unable to confirm the elderly man's suspicions, yet unable to truly deny them either.

"Now that you know, you can do something about it," Carl said, in a clear understanding of Dean's silence.

"Do what?" Dean snapped. "How do explain I may be the reason he got hurt? I've spent my life standing _between _my brother and danger, not shoving him into it."

A sad smile touched Carl's face. "We've all hurt the ones we love, son. The great part is, they're ready to forgive us, just waiting for the moment."

Dean forced the question out past choked vocal chords, "For what moment?"

"For us to ask." Carl nodded. "Sometimes the words have to be said." Dean nodded, the muscles in his jaw bunching. The older man was right, but there were so many words left unspoken between him and Sam lately that Dean wasn't sure where to begin. "I better get back," Carl announced, his voice rough.

Dean stood, waiting until Carl did, too. He placed a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "Thanks." Carl smiled in response. Dean walked beside the elderly man until he turned off to the oncology wing. Dean watched the doors for a moment before he continued back to the Emergency Department.

_TBC_

………………………………………………………..**Supernatural**………………………………………………………….

AN: Sorry I took so long with this chapter. The llamas were not only distracting, but the darn flaming ducks wouldn't leave me alone either! LOL


	4. And Wisdom to Know the Difference

**Pain Management**

**Disclaimer: **They aren't mine.

**Beta'd: **By Muffy Morrigan, Carocali, and yes, even poor Phx, for whom this story is intended. There really is no such thing as a free lunch (or story) apparently. LOL.

Thank you really is inadequate to express my gratitude. You guys rock!

_I played after they beta'd, so as usual, all remaining errors are mine and mine alone._

**Time Line: **Set some time after Heaven and Hell, as such, spoilers abound.

**Dedicated: **To Phx. I'm sorry the last chapter took a century. I hope you understand.

………………………………………**And Wisdom to Know the Difference**………………………………...

The doctor had explained everything in horrifying detail, but the one thing Dean had latched onto was that Sam would be fine. He'd lost a lot of blood and done a number on his arm. Dean had been right about internal injuries, which as much as it sucked, could have been a lot worse. The surgeon was confident they'd repaired all the damage, so all that remained for Sam to get better was rest. That also left the part Dean hated most – waiting.

Dean walked into the room, noticing immediately how pale Sam looked against the white sheets and harsh florescent lighting. He also looked incredibly young. Gone were the lines of stress and worry on his face, his closed eyes didn't hint at deeper hurts or a lifetime of loss contained within the twenty-five-year-old body.

He took a seat beside Sam's bed, listening to the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor chirp in reassurance. The view outside the window was the dull beige exterior of the adjacent wing and the gravel topped roof of a lower level portion of the building they were in. The gray sky and nondescript view only added to Dean's mood.

He twisted the ring on his finger, mesmerized by the glint of light off the silver band. Blood from the aufhocker or his brother, Dean wasn't sure which, lined the creases of his palms. He rubbed at the red with the pad of his thumb until his hands burned from the heat of friction. Eyes blinking, he yawned wide, leaning back in his chair. Sleep wasn't on the agenda, only waiting. Long moments of waiting with no one to keep him company, but his own thoughts.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam's fingers twitched. He felt the rough texture of inexpensive sheets against his skin. They must have made it back to the motel. He wasn't feeling any real pain and he wondered how long he'd been out of it.

"Sam?" Dean's voice, hopeful, expectant, calling him back to awareness. Warm fingers brushed sweaty bangs off his forehead.

_I'm fine, _Sam thought. What came out sounded more like a hiss of air escaping through dry lips. His eyebrows twitched in frustration. A rhythmic beeping danced on nerves. _Turn off the damn alarm clock, Dean. I'm tired._

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said, looping his fingers in Sam's. "Go back to sleep. You're safe."

-0-0-

The low rumble of his brother's voice woke him the second time. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so tired. Sam blinked wearily, staring blankly forward. It took several beats before his mind engaged and he correctly identified where he was. Hospital.

"Sam?" Dean leaned down into his field of vision. "Are you awake?"

He slowly turned his head, eyes mostly unfocused. _Dean._ "Dean?" the younger Winchester managed, parroting his thoughts.

"How do you feel?" Dean asked, pressing closer to the bed.

Sam blinked, his sluggish brain refusing to cooperate. "Tired?"

"Was that a question?" Dean asked, a note of laughter in his voice. He sat back, scrubbing a hand down his face. "They're still giving you the really good stuff. You should go back to sleep."

Sam nodded, he probably should, but it felt like he was forgetting something important. He furrowed his brow in concentration. "You okay?" He swallowed hard trying to rid the cottony feeling from his throat.

"I'm fine," Dean said, pouring water into a small glass. He bent the straw and held it for Sam to take a sip. Sam made a move for the cup, knocking it sideways, the water sloshing over the edge onto the blankets. He frowned and Dean relinquished the cup.

"You got the aufhocker," Sam said. He took a sip of water, placing the cup back on the tray table.

It was a statement, but Dean must have heard the question behind it. "Yeah, beheaded, salted and burned."

"Good." The flames were the last thing Sam had a clear memory of. The walk back to the Impala was disjointed and fragmented at best. He weakly tugged the nasal canula. He never liked the feeling of forced air up his nose; the dry air burned the sensitive membranes. "So, when can we leave?"

"Not until you're cleared by the doctors," Dean said. "You just had surgery." The older man tilted his head in the direction of the heavy cast on Sam's arm. "Not to mention they're talking bruised kidneys, the broken rib, and they want to observe you for awhile, make sure they got all the internal bleeding stopped. You got smashed flat, Sam. There's no rush. We're staying."

"I feel fine." Sam met his brother's intense gaze. He couldn't get side-lined now. Dean needed him.

"You feel okay right now because you're on painkillers," the older man said, his green eyes sparkling. "What's with the rush to leave and why do you keep _insisting_ you're fine all the time?"

Sam bit the inside of his lip. How could he explain to his brother that after everything that Dean had been through, complaining about much of anything felt like whining about a stubbed toe? He could see Dean's frustration building at his silence. His brother's leg bounced, hands clenched, then relaxed, one moving to tap out a beat on his thigh. "I think you're right," Sam said finally. He was too spent to face another battle with his brother. "I'm just tired. You should go back to the motel and get some sleep."

To emphasize his point, and to spare himself and Dean the pain of having _that _conversation, Sam closed his eyes. There was a good chance Dean wouldn't leave, but then again, Sam really was tired and maybe he would fall asleep. Either way, he could delay the argument, the lecture he was sure was brewing until he could, at the very least, form a coherent response to Dean's questions. His entire body vibrated with anxiety.

Dean wasn't leaving.

He heard a choked sound, the rustle of denim, Dean's ring tapping lighting on the bed rail. "Sam." Sam tensed; he didn't want to do this right now.

"Dean, please," he said, mentally cringing at how desperate his tone sounded. Sam cleared his throat. "Just go. I'm tired. We can talk later, okay?"

"Sammy?" Dean began again. A warm hand rested gently on his shoulder. Sam felt his resolve falter. Months of building new walls falling at the familiar, yet now seldom used name. Demons had used it to mock him. Their taunts tainting the endearment that had meant he was loved and cared for by his family and driving home how truly alone he was.

He felt the muscles in his shoulder quiver under Dean's hand. If his brother didn't leave soon, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to hold it together. Whether it was the anesthesia still floating around in his system, the drugs, or his injuries, it wouldn't matter. Sam's defenses were on the verge of crumbling.

"I haven't completely forgotten how to be your brother, Sam," Dean said softly. "I may not have been paying enough attention at first, or maybe you were better at hiding it for awhile, I dunno. But I do know you're hiding something from me."

So that was it. Dean was afraid he was keeping things from him again. His heart sank into his stomach. He was so tired of explaining himself, of trying to do the right thing and failing at every turn. Sam opened his eyes, his entire body sagging under the weight of guilt. "Dean, I told you everything."

"Look, I get it okay?" Dean said. "I understand why you didn't tell me about the demon blood. I even get why you didn't tell me about using your abilities." He stopped and stared pointedly at Sam. "You should have told me, but I get it."

Sam swallowed hard. Pinpricks of electrical sensation ghosted up and down his arm under the cast. Whatever painkillers they had given him, they were wearing off. He tried to formulate a good response to Dean's statements, but his brain was still under the influence of a medicated fog. Dean spared him the trouble by continuing.

"But this is different. This goes beyond putting up a good front." Dean leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on his knees. His was only inches from Sam's, Dean's penetrating green gaze raking over him. The younger man squirmed under the scrutiny. "Painkillers are wearing off, aren't they? Use the morphine, Sam."

"I…" Sam started. He raised a shaky hand for the water glass, his mouth suddenly dry. Dean helped him get a drink. "Thanks." Sam met his brother's gaze. "I didn't know I had any."

Dean chuckled lightly. "I suppose with all the wires and tubing it's hard to tell what's hooked up to you." Sam returned the smile. Dean reached over the bedrail and pushed the button for the pain medication. "Go to sleep. We can talk later when you're more up for it."

If Dean meant for his words to be reassuring, they weren't. Although, maybe it wasn't about him after all, maybe Dean just needed to talk. "Is it about what you told me the other day?" Sam asked. A warm relief flooded his body as the morphine quickly took effect. It sapped what little energy he had left and he fought to keep his eyes open.

"No," Dean said firmly, his expression darkening. "We're going to pretend that conversation never happened."

Sam yawned, his body fighting his efforts to stay awake. He should just let it go, it's what he'd wanted only moments before. However, now that Dean had broached the subject Sam's mind couldn't stop mulling it over. "What then?" He knew his brother and if Dean wanted to talk it was more than just Sam's insistence that everything was fine. It meant something much bigger was brewing in his brother's mind. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

Dean shook his head. "Later. Sleep now."

The drugs stole his anxiety and his resolve, calming his emotions and conversely forming chaos out of his normally organized thoughts. "You too," Sam insisted, reaching out to pat the air in Dean's general direction. "You look like crap."

"Ah, the wonders of Morphine-Sammy," Dean said. He sniffed his armpit and grimaced. "You're not wrong though. I need a shower."

"You need a bed," Sam said. "It's not like I'm going anywhere. I'm just going to sleep."

"I've seen you on narcotics," Dean replied. "You ramble senselessly, then you crash." He stretched through the bedrail, patting Sam softly on the leg. "Can't leave until you go to sleep, there's no telling what you'll do otherwise."

Sam chuckled, suddenly overwhelmingly amused by his brother. "You can go, Dean. I'll be fine on my own for five minutes."

The smile dropped from Dean's face, the wrinkles around his eyes smoothing. "I'm sorry you've had to go it alone for so long already," he said.

Sam frowned, his forehead crinkling. "You're back now. It's over." He didn't want to think about his life while Dean was in hell, not when he was at his best and certainly not while he suffered from a drug-induced emotional vulnerability. It was never going to happen again. Sam would do whatever it took to make sure that no one else died in his place, least of all his brother.

"I'm not talking about while I was in hell, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam tried to respond, to offer a response to Dean's revelation, but his eyes closed of their own volition. He really hated what strong drugs did to him. Before the morphine whisked his mind away, Sam managed a whispered, "M'sorry, too."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

In spite of his intentions and what he'd told his brother, Dean didn't talk to Sam in the hospital. Another soul-bearing conversation on the heels of the last one would mean he'd need some space, and he couldn't leave Sam alone, he just couldn't, no matter how self-reliant his already independent brother had become. Dean was working hard on not taking it as rejection, but it was still difficult overcoming the feeling that more often than not, Sam didn't seem to need him anymore.

So, he'd kept the conversation light. They'd talked about the deplorable choices on daytime television, rehashed childhood memories including _the_ prank war that had left Sam bald, and the unbelievably terrible state of hospital food. Two days later they were headed for Bobby's.

The nurse pulled the wheelchair to a stop beside the Impala's passenger door and Sam was settled inside in no time. "Wave good-bye to the nice lady, Sammy," Dean said, leaning down to pat him on the shoulder.

An eye roll and glare shot his way before a dimpled grin was aimed at the nurse. "Thanks, Kathleen," Sam said.

The brunette smiled back, the skin wrinkling around her eyes. "Take it easy, okay?" she lectured. "No more bear hunting for awhile."

"I'll see that he doesn't," Dean said, edging further between the nurse and his brother. Another glare from Sam and he swallowed back a chuckle. Sometimes Sam was just so easy. He accepted the white paper bag of his brother's prescriptions from Kathleen. "Thanks," he said, nodding in her direction and shutting the passenger door.

"You're welcome," Kathleen said. She smiled, waving over her shoulder on her way into the hospital.

Dean slid into the car, glancing over at his brother. Sam cradled his ribs with his uninjured arm, his head resting against the window. He'd been given a strong dose of painkillers before they left the room and Dean figured Sam would sleep most of the trip. "You okay?"

The younger man turned his head towards Dean and blinked lazily. His head wobbled a little before resettling against the window. "Just tired."

"Do you want coffee or sleep?" Dean flipped the ignition and pulled out of the parking spot. He couldn't wait to get the Impala on the open road for a few hours. When there was no response, Dean looked over at his brother. Sam's face was screwed up in consternation. "I didn't think it was that hard of a decision." The younger man just blinked. "It's okay, Sam, go to sleep. I'll make coffee at Bobby's."

It seemed to be what Sam needed to hear because he nodded his head falling back soundly against the glass. Dean winced. "Ow," Sam said, belatedly.

The older man thumped his brother lightly on his chest. "We'll be there in a few hours."

"Good," Sam said, his eyes slipping closed.

The sleek black car pulled out on the highway, quickly gaining speed. The music wasn't on. Not because Dean worried about disturbing his brother. Sam was dead to the world from the last round of medication. It was more that he couldn't handle the grinding guitar and the pulsating beat. Music had always soothed him when he needed something to take the edge off life, but lately, it only served to remind him how really not okay he was.

Sam shifted in the seat beside him, a low mumble that Dean couldn't begin to decipher and then he settled back against the window. Light from a passing vehicle briefly illuminated the car's interior and Dean took the opportunity to glance at his brother. Sam's forehead scrunched in lines of worry or dismay, Dean couldn't tell which. His once open brother had become a bit of an enigma, seemingly aging years in six months. He wondered if Sam had the same trouble understanding him these days.

True to his word, Dean pulled into Bobby's three hours later. The older hunter appeared backlit in the doorway to greet the Winchesters. Dean waved as he pulled the Impala to a stop and Bobby stood at his window before he'd had a chance to switch off the engine. He exited the car, tossing the other man the keys. "Can you grab our bags?"

"What's this look like to you?" Bobby asked. "The Ritz Carlton?"

Dean smirked, slapping Bobby on the shoulder on his way past. "Fine, I'll grab the bags, you're on sasquatch duty."

"I ain't lugging his ass up those stairs," Bobby said, walking with Dean around the car and pausing at the trunk. "That _kid _weighs a ton now."

"Yeah, I know," Dean said. If the sparring in the gym hadn't driven that point home, the assisted carry through the woods had. He paused, hand resting on the door handle. The air was cool and smelled of rain. He was glad they'd be inside tonight, not working a job. "Bobby?"

The older man closed the trunk lid halfway to look at Dean. "Yeah?"

He didn't know what he'd been thinking. He regretted telling Sam what he'd been through. There was no way he was asking Bobby a question on how to deal with what had happened with the aufhocker. It would lead to more questions he wasn't prepared to answer. "Never mind," Dean said.

He ignored Bobby's questioning look, ducking his head to open the passenger door.

As the door swung, Sam immediately started to fall out of the car. Dean pressed closer, keeping his brother in the seat. "Easy there, Sam," he said. "Come on, wake up for me."

"I'm awake," Sam mumbled. "Don't want to go inside. Leave me here. S'comfortable."

"Uh-huh," Dean said, looping an arm around his brother's long legs, twisting until they hung outside the car door. "You say that now. Tomorrow it'd be…'Dean, why'd you leave me in the car all night'." He smirked; pleased he'd gotten the pitch of Sam's little brother edge perfect.

Sam snorted. "I do _not _sound like that."

He wrapped an arm around the younger man's shoulders, helping him to standing. "'Fraid so," Dean said, shutting the door with his hip.

Sam scowled. "You're a riot."

Dean smiled, prodding his brother forward. "Come on, kiddo," he urged. "Bed."

It didn't take long to get Sam settled in the spare bedroom. It took even less time for Dean's restless legs to drive him from his bed and back downstairs into Bobby's kitchen. The older man sat at the table nursing a whisky.

"Pull up a seat," Bobby said, gesturing to the spot across the table. "There're glasses in the cupboard."

Dean nodded. He searched the cabinet for the hot cocoa he knew the older hunter used to keep for cold winter nights when they were kids. He found it tucked behind cans of beans. The cinnamon was harder to find, but there were two jugs of milk in the refrigerator. He started the milk heating and took a seat at the table.

He made eye contact with the older man. Bobby had pushed his hat back on his head or maybe his eyebrows had pushed it up his forehead as they seemed to be trying to escape the confines of Bobby's face. "Something you want to tell me, Dean?"

"What?" Dean asked, screwing up his face. "No, just couldn't sleep."

Bobby jerked his head in the direction of the stove. "I meant with the 'Sammy Special' over there. I haven't seen you make that since, well, since that hunt in Louisiana when you boys were kids."

The corner of the younger man's mouth quirked in remembrance. "Hey, it got him back to sleep," Dean defended.

"No, _it_ didn't," Bobby said, his tone suggesting Dean was idiot. "_You_ did. You didn't brush off his fears, but you didn't dwell on them either. You let him work through it on his own and he did because he knew you were there for him."

Dean scowled, standing to check the milk. "Are we still talking about Sam?"

"Who else?" Bobby asked innocently, pouring another shot.

Dean poured the warm milk into a mug, stirring in the cocoa and sprinkling cinnamon on top. He took a sip and smiled. It was as good as he remembered. "I'm taking my hot chocolate on the road, Dr. Phil," Dean said.

"Good night, Dean," the older man said.

"Night, Bobby."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam woke, slowly stretching muscles stiff from days in bed. He pretty much ached all over, the rib and his arm giving him the most trouble. It only took a few seconds to realize he was in Bobby's spare room. The bed was definitely softer than the sofa. He made a mental note to try remembering that for the next time. Sam eased to sitting, snagging his jeans. It was time to find Dean.

Sounds of dishes rattling drew him to the kitchen. "Hey, Bobby," Sam said, his voice morning rough. He smothered a chuckle when the older man turned from the sink wearing an apron. He could feel his lips twitching. "Have you seen Dean?"

"Lots of times," Bobby said, his voice light. He turned back to the sink.

Sam smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Do you know where he is?"

Bobby turned to him and smiled, placing a sudsy hand on Sam's shoulder. "Yep, but you should eat something before you go out after him. He'll be fine for a few minutes." The gruff hunter carefully man-handled Sam into a chair by the table, then handed him a glass of juice.

The younger man rolled his eyes. "I'm not a kid, Bobby. I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, I know," Bobby said, "but I got a plateful of leftovers and somebody's gotta eat it." Sam's eyes opened wide at the sight of the heaping plate of food the older man set on the table. "Plate's hot, I just took it out of the oven."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said, pouring on a thick layer of maple syrup. He took a bite of pancake. "It's good."

"Don't sound so surprised," Bobby said. "You always did like my pancakes."

Sam grimaced. "You always used them to butter me up. So, spill."

The older man took a seat across the table. "I was that obvious, huh?"

"Not when I was younger, no." He waggled a fork at the seasoned hunter. "But I'm on to you."

Bobby smiled. "Truth is," he said, his eyes glinting with concern. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine," Sam said. "Just a little sore." He inclined his head towards the other man when Bobby shot him a look of disbelief. "Okay, I've had better days."

"Been thinking, you boys should stay here for a couple of weeks," Bobby said. He held up his hand when Sam tried to interrupt. "I could use some help." The older man snapped his fingers, standing up, taking something out of the cupboard. "Dean asked me to give you these when you got up."

Sam frowned, fingering the pills Bobby had deposited in front of him before he'd sat back down. Antibiotics and painkillers, nothing unexpected, so he swallowed them with a swig of orange juice. "What do you need help with?" Sam asked, turning his attention back to their previous conversation. If Bobby needed their help, he couldn't turn the older man down.

"I don't know what it is, that's kind of what I need help with," Bobby said, scratching his head. "Maybe some time this afternoon we could go over it?"

"Sure," the younger man agreed. Sam narrowed his eyes. "This isn't just some ploy you and Dean cooked up to keep us here for awhile, is it?"

"So, what if it is?" Bobby asked. "That change your answer?"

"No," Sam said. "Just curious."

"Good." Bobby stood, refilled his cup and poured one for Sam. He set the steaming mug down in front of the youngest Winchester. "Now, after you finish that and your breakfast, I'll tell you where Dean is."

Sam raised an eyebrow, but accepted the mother-hen routine from the older hunter. Bobby went back to washing the dishes, yet Sam caught him surreptitiously glancing in his direction several times. He sighed. It was going to be a long couple of weeks.

-0-0-

As it was Bobby kept him busy with this, that or the other for over an hour and Sam began to suspect that he was being intentionally delayed. When he finally managed to pry it out of the older man, he mentally flinched. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have given the half acre trek out to the grassy field behind the garage another thought. Today, it seemed a nearly insurmountable challenge. He realized then that Bobby had been stalling to keep him at the house hoping that Dean would return.

A part of him just wanted to crawl his way up the stairs and into bed. The bigger part of him was worried about Dean. It took nearly twenty minutes to walk the short distance across the old pasture. The uneven ground caused him to stumble twice, jostling his ribs and aggravating the incision on his stomach. Sam spotted his brother by the fence shortly before the first shot rang out.

He wrapped his good arm around his chest, stopping within feet of the older man. Dean lined up the sight on his Colt, gently squeezing the trigger. There was another satisfying pop and then an explosion of glass and whisky. "What are you doing?" Sam asked, his breath hitching.

"What am _I_ doing?" Dean asked, his brow knotted in a meld of confusion and frustration. "What are _you_ doing? You should be resting."

"I will," Sam said, knowing it was the truth. He was beat and there was still the return trip to ahead of him. "I wanted to find you first."

"Well, you found me," Dean said, his voice tight, but his tone wasn't angry. "Now sit down before you fall down."

Sam shook his head, although Dean had a good point, he could feel his knees wobbling. "Tell me why you're out here."

The older man stared at Sam, then focused his attention on the bottles lined up approximately twenty feet away. "I'm not taking any more chances," Dean said, his tone was a decent attempt at casual, but there were cracks in it. "No more drinking."

Now Sam understood. He took a step closer to his brother. "Dean, what happened out there, it – it wasn't your fault. I mean I…" He trailed off at the look Dean threw him. The icy glare, the clenched jaw, it said, 'Shut up, Sam' as clearly as if the words had been said aloud.

"Don't," Dean said, shaking his head, "just, don't." The silence grew until the older man raised his weapon, shooting off another round.

"You know, you don't have to give up drinking entirely, Dean," Sam said, sidling up to his brother. He carefully eased down to rest on the edge of the fence. "Everything in moderation."

"Including moderation?" Dean quipped, a smirk appearing then disappearing nearly as quickly.

Sam smiled though, pulling his injured arm in closer to his torso, cradling it lightly. "Yeah, especially moderation."

Dean looked sideways at his brother. "I'm sorry, Sam," he said, abruptly, his voice choked.

Sam turned to him, the confusion on his face melting into a softer expression. "Dean, you and me? We're going to be okay."

Dean snorted, a wet sound. "Everything's screwed to hell, Sam. I'm your brother, I'm supposed to watch out for you and instead, I wasn't fast enough all because of the choice that _I _made that _you_ warned me about," Dean said, his voice growing in volume with his agitation.

Sam stood silently, deep in thought. The double meaning and the applicable reversal of Dean's statement wasn't lost on him, but the truth was he hadn't heard this line of reasoning from Dean in a long time. "And I'm _your_ brother," he said, softly countering Dean's argument.

"My _little _brother," Dean shot back.

Sam nodded, a grin lighting his face momentarily. "Okay, sure, trust you to get caught up in the semantics but, Dean, we have the same job we just go about it in different ways." Dean's brow furrowed as he listened to Sam. "We look out for each other."

Sam kept his expression carefully neutral, no blame, no accusations, but no pity either, just an openness that used to be his signature look, now in rusty disuse. "And I've never doubted my brother had my back."

"Me neither," Dean said with a small grin.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

They stood in companionable silence, staring out at the expanse of snow covered prairie grass until Sam started shivering. The first time Sam winced at the movement, Dean ignored it. The second time it was accompanied by a low groan and he couldn't pretend he didn't notice. "Time's up," Dean said. "I'm cold." The younger man gave him a half-grin and a side-long glance. Sam was on to him.

"Yeah, okay," Sam said. He wrapped the end of his scarf around the fingers trapped in the cast, driving the other deep into his pocket.

The brothers trudged towards Bobby's both lost in contemplation. Sam's brow wrinkled deeply and, by the time they were halfway back across the pasture, Dean had worried long enough. The younger man looked exhausted, the slump of his shoulders more hunched than usual. His mouth was a tight line of pain, but the brow wrinkling, that was something else entirely. "Sam, we're good, right?"

If anything, the lines deepened. "Yeah, we're good," Sam agreed. "Why?"

"Because I could lose a quarter in those." Dean swirled a finger near Sam's forehead. "So what gives?"

The younger man stopped walking and turned to face Dean. "It's just, where do we go from here?"

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, a frown tugging his lips at the fear he heard in his own voice.

"No, not like that," Sam said, his expression mirroring his brother's. "I'm not sure what we're supposed to do. Look for Lilith? Wait for a sign?"

"We do what we've always done," the older man insisted. "We keep on hunting and we'll figure it out. Our way."

"How can you possibly know that, Dean? We've got angels some of whom are on our side, some of whom…" Sam stopped, lowering his gaze.

"Are dicks," Dean supplied, his lips curling into a smile.

"Yeah," Sam said, "and demons, ancient seals and end of the world shit. This is so much bigger than the two of us."

Dean nodded, a full beat passing before he bumped Sam's shoulder with his own. "Not to me." He waited, watching his brother's expression and yet he still nearly missed the glimpse of Sammy hiding in the worried hazel depths.

"Me neither," Sam said softly, a slight grin appearing. "So, back to the hunt?"

Dean started walking again, Sam falling into step beside him. "No way, not yet." He waited for the answering huff, pleased when he heard his brother's unmistakable annoyance. Some things hadn't changed so much after all. "Bobby needs our help."

"Mm-hmm," Sam hummed. "For a couple of weeks, got the spiel already."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You know, for being such a cracker-jack hunter, Bobby really sucks at lying sometimes."

Sam nodded, the grin reappearing, deepening. "Kind of amazing considering he can lie to strangers without batting an eye."

Dean chuckled as they crossed through to the back of Bobby's house, neatly bypassing three trip alarms. He opened the door and a warm waft of inside air breezed past them. "You know, when we head out you're on research and back up only."

Sam's eyes sparkled mischievously. "We'll see."

Dean stepped to the side allowing his brother to enter the house first, pressing a hand to Sam's back as he passed by. Maybe he could throw himself back into the hunt, try to make amends for his time in hell, and do his job. And maybe, just maybe, he and Sam really were, finally, okay.

_Amen_

……….………………………………………………….**Supernatural**…………………………………………………….....

AN: I'm so sorry for the long wait. No excuses, just humble apologies. Thanks for reading!


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